kissed me quite insane
by explodeywodey
Summary: "As far as I can see it, Doctor, we've two options," she purrs, reaching up into his hair, "We can go off and help good old Jim the Fish with whatever trouble he's gotten himself into this time—" "That's what we're going to do—" "Or we could stay here, Doctor, where you don't have to worry about me walking around being all indecent and distracting."


paring: river/eleven

rating: M (NC-17)

wordcount: 6,471

summary: _"As far as I can see it, Doctor, we've two options," she purrs, reaching up into his hair, tangling those graceful fingers through it. "We can go off and help good old Jim the Fish with whatever trouble he's gotten himself into this time—"_

_"That's what we're going to do—"_

_"Or we could stay here, Doctor, where you don't have to worry about me walking around being all indecent and distracting."_

River/Eleven PWP. I mean I don't think I need to justify it it's just too fun to play about with them. As usual, never happy with how I write the Doctor, but whatever whatever I DO WHAT I WANT. Thanks for reading!

* * *

It's cold and empty in the galaxies that span the universe, twinkling with stars and glowing with suns and moons and bright shining planets full of life and ignorant people going about their daily lives without a sense of the wider picture and bigger scope. He spends so much time alone; the companions like to be alone every couple of months, and he tours the universe, desperately trying to avoid having to tie the loose ends he's left everywhere. It's hard to avoid himself, and harder still to avoid the people he's left behind, whether he's helped them or spurned them. He runs mostly, fuelled by what seems like some sort of escapist, fearful desire to not be forever the mad man with a box who runs around saving people and wrecking lives. He runs from what he is, but even in the farthest corners of the galaxy he finds that the one thing in his long, long life that he can never quite leave behind in time.

And every once in a while, every now and again, he finds something that should be small and insignificant—namely, rumours and whispered stories, archaic black boxes from ships that never reached their destinations, and strange mentions in history books—that tells him that he is not alone. Somewhere in the worlds there is another just like him, hitching a ride across time and space. Someone he's not sure if he should run from, or _to_.

He also realises that he is being followed.

This feeling is not singular, nor is it unfounded. She leaves him hints, messages, and, once, a lewd drawing on the wall of her cell that made him blush like he was only a century old. She's taunting him. Once the psychic paper picked up a _decidedly_ naughty message with coordinates that he definitely didn't follow. Not at all. He also, if anyone asks him (which they have not, but he's playing it safe) where he was on February 23, 1682, denies that he was at a ball in Spain shagging River in a corridor near the gardens. That never happened, at least not on the record.

He pretends not to be surprised when the psychic paper picks up another message, and not at all let down when it's not from his lovely River but instead from Jim the Fish, a smaller and decidedly less jovial cousin of Dorium Maldovar's who set up shop on Easter Island in 33 B.C.E. It's not even unusual for him to be in a spot of bother, really. And because they're friends (or rather, it's incredibly nice to have Jim the Fish with all of his connections and misbegotten goods indebted to you), the Doctor decides to help, or at least check out what's going on.

And why not take River along for the ride. Easter Island is beaches and indigenous people with a penchant for worshipping powerful, strange folk as gods, and if there are two things River likes that do not fall into the category of heels, guns, and him, then they are beaches and worship. He rather likes beaches too. There's swimming, which this body is fantastically good at, and there's River in any form of swimming suit, which is, well, _fantastic_. He isn't picturing her in swimming gear at the moment. The fact that he's plugged in the coordinates to Stormcage prison incorrectly for the third time is because he is enthusiastic. About helping. And seeing River. _Chastely_.

Fourth try and going slowly he finally manages the coordinates. He's laughing quietly to himself more because he doesn't know what to do than because anything is funny. _Well, here goes nothing_. He's half hoping that she's not there because he's not sure what to say or do or if she'll even want to go.

"Hello sweetie," she says, swinging the door open and striding in, and he thinks he's going to need a whole new universe to keep him away from her, because the current one isn't doing very well at the moment.

She's dynamite. She's _glorious_. She's a universe all to herself, and that hair is the _sun_. There is no metaphor for what the rest of her is, if not proof of some divine intent to really really really distract him.

She's got her prison trousers on, and he can see the faint outline of a gun sheathed on her lower thigh. He really shouldn't like that. But it makes parts of him that haven't tingled since, well, ages ago tingle and in fact it's all of him now that's going completely pins-and-needles mad and his hearts are thump-thump-thumping and that's okay. Everything's okay. He's the king of okay, ruling over the kingdom of okay and all the peasants of okay are doing a strange convulsive tribal dance along the quaking fields of okay. He's never been more okay in his life.

"River!" he exclaims, and races across the room to close the door behind her.

"Always loved a proper gentleman," she smirks, giving him a good once-over. "Did you miss me, my love?"

Those words. Those last two. She calls everyone _sweetie_ (because when you live this long and know this much everything has to be endearing or you'll destroy it all), but my love is the phrase she's reserved for him and no-one else. And she calls him sweetie a lot more than she does anyone else, just to remind him.

Of course he's flailing.

"Yes, River, excellent," he calls over his shoulder, always on the move because what else does he have these two noodle legs for anyway if it isn't racing and running, always, always running? "We're going to Easter Island!"

"What, again? I only just got here," she mock-pouts, and he remembers how rude they were to her on that island. Well, one person in particular: namely, the one they are off to see.

"Er, yes, that is, I just got a bit of a call—it's modern day, though, well for you, anyway, so I thought you wouldn't mind it because we're needed—"

"Jim the Fish in another spot of bother?" She cocks her hips and bends her arms akimbo, giving him one of those looks he's beginning, finally, to understand.

"Well, not exactly. You see, it's not actually his fault this time or so he says, and I thought I might as well go in and check up on him because I know you love a beach, so here we are."

"So we're on an intergalactic rescue mission, basically. And I wore my nice knickers today as well. Pity."

He gulps. That's something he's never quite gotten the hang of. Her. Everything about her. Because most of the time he can roll by on being the ridiculous old man, but sometimes he honestly gets so lost in the things that nobody else seems to have problems with.

"Right," he says, throwing a lever (and pretending not to notice when she flips a switch on the other side of the console), "Off to Easter Island!" He also pretends not to notice the flash of annoyance on her face and the fiery spark in her eye that says that so help her he will not reach the destination with clothing and dignity intact. "Change, River," he says pointedly, gesturing toward the wing of the TARDIS where the wardrobe is. With unusual compliance, River huffs and storms off. He looks up, patting the console. "Don't give her anything too revealing, old girl," he requests, feeling the resulting hum of assent and mild annoyance. He has a job to do, and River wandering about in a dress with the usual emphasis on the décolletage will be _distracting_.

"Doctor?"

"What is it?" he demands, somewhat irritably.

"There's nothing to wear!"

"I'm sure there is!"

"There is a nun's _habit_, a Victorian _matron'_s gown, a late twentieth century working woman's pantsuit, complete with the _shoulderpads_ I might add, some tweedy slip of clothing I can only assume to be yours, and a cleric's uniform, fifty-second century."

He smiles up at the ceiling again, thanking his lucky stars that his sexy machine is on his side.

"Wear something from that, then! The cleric's uniform—you've worn one of those before—"

"Easter Island," she roars, "is _tropical_!"

"Jim the Fish has technology, River, he's from the fifty-second century! His tent will be air conditioned!"

"Right," she says, and he can hear her voice drawing closer. He winces, staring hopefully at the ceiling. "So I'll just, ah, _traipse_ about Easter Island in a nun's habit—or a pantsuit, really, I'm not picky—looking for a tent. And when my _dear_ friend Jim the Fish asks me what in the hell I'm wearing, I shall tell him that I knew he had air conditioning, so I decided to dress like a spinster."

"Really, River, just wear the cleric's uniform—"

"I like this a bit better," she says, and he realises with a horrible sinking feeling that she is standing right behind him, and he can now feel the nerve-wracking sensation of her breath on the back of his neck.

And he thought he flailed around her when she was clothed.

At least she is mildly clothed: she's standing there in her bra and knickers, barefoot, hips cocked coquettishly. Mildly. Her bare feet are the only reason he didn't hear her sneak up on him. Oh, she is wearing her nice knickers, perhaps one pair out of the many he's seen: green and lace and composed of entirely too little fabric.

Oh dear. At least he can complain—inwardly—that they really ought to be blue? But they match her eyes, and her eyes are such a lovely shade—

"As far as I can see it, Doctor, we've two options," she purrs, reaching up into his hair, tangling those graceful fingers through it. "We can go off and help good old Jim the Fish with whatever trouble he's gotten himself into this time—"

"That's what we're going to do—"

"Or we could stay here, Doctor, where you don't have to worry about me walking around being all _indecent_ and _distracting_."

"I never said you were!" he protests, waving his arm at her as he pulls himself away. He's got to get her some clothing; maybe he can get the TARDIS to return the clothing surreptitiously, pawn it off on her like it was there all along, just in another wardrobe…

"Sweetie, you had the TARDIS hide anything wearable. To me, that says you might be distracted."

"I did not!"

"Oh, don't lie to me sweetie," she murmurs, and she's behind him once again, hands wrapping 'round his body, fingers unsnapping his braces.

"_River_!"

"And don't tell me you don't want this, either." A thought occurs to her—he can see a scintilla of worry shine in her eyes for a moment. "We have done this before, right?"

"Yes, we have," he snaps, flushing. "Spain 1682 was the last time. Charles II nearly caught us, you know."

"Ah, that man. He spent his dance with me alternating between staring down my dress and twitching. Horrible little man; he sweated and…_spasmed_ something dreadful."

"River!"

"Oh I don't care that you saved his kingdom from some intergalactic plague, the people still starved. Horrid little man, horrid little king." She skims her hands up over his torso, smirking as his breath hitches. "Oh, Doctor. Doctor, Doctor, _Doctor_…"

"What?" He's yelping and irritable but can she really blame him? Her hands—oh no they're going lower and he has things to do, perilous, magnificent things that usually result in him saving the day one way or another, great intelligent things that he never really figures out until the last minute—her hands won't stop _moving _and for a moment he considers getting lost in the sensation because it is rather nice.

_Well_.

On second thought, peril can stay outside and remain as perilous as it wants. The king of okay has something to attend to—namely, a growing bulge in his pants that he is trying very, very hard to ignore. She begins with his buttons—she undoes three in a matter of seconds and she's quickening all the while from behind him. She unties his bow tie, flicking her wrist daintily and hurling the strip of fabric across the room.

"River…"

"Do you want me to stop?" There is no safe word, there is no understanding between them. Either it happens or it does not, and this is his last chance for it to not.

He doesn't need to think. Ever. The dancing peasants of okay have become a streak of lazy fire spreading from his mind to his groin and ricocheting to fill him completely, light as air and yet still on fire. "No. Not in the least." He turns to face her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her, biting her full lower lip. "Jim the Fish can wait for a while; I've got to see what you've got in store for me, you bad, bad girl."

"Oh, I think you know," she replies, voice sinking lower to an almost predatory smirking purr. "It's not too dissimilar to that time in Spain…minus Charles II, of course."

"Really? Shame. He was my favourite part, all that awkward twitching when I asked for a dance." He loops his thumbs under the lace around her hips, pulling the fabric taut and holding still, waiting.

"Mm, and did you like the bit where he nearly walked in on us?" she asks, shifting her hips forward slightly.

"Oh, no. That was—that was bad, wasn't it? That wouldn't have ended well. Not well at all." It's subtle, the way they move and the dance they weave. She pushes forward almost imperceptibly; his hands move slowly down. Another hitch of her hips and she leans forward, pressing her chest to his.

"That would not have ended well at all," she breathes. "Luckily, there's nobody here to walk in on us now, is there?"

It's like she's a jinx. The instant the word 'now' leaves her mouth a great banging echoes throughout the console room, accompanied by a yelling from outside: "Doctor! Doctor! What the hell're you doing in there, having a wank? Get out!"

Jim the bloody Fish. Never mind that his name is probably the strangest thing for anyone non-human to pick up, never mind that he's somehow picked up twenty-first century slang despite being grounded in the B.C.E. period, and never mind that he's interrupting something that should never be interrupted. Never mind all of that. He's got to go and save the day. It's what he does because he's the one with a clever plan and wit out the arse and a heart of gold. River rolls her eyes at the look on his face.

"Oh, go on," she says, and he shifts nervously where he stands, afraid to move in case he messes up something.

"Let's just…wait him out. He'll leave."

"This is Jim the Fish we're talking about, sweetie. He doesn't up and leave."

"I'll come up with an extremely clever plan to scare him off," he declares, leaning the last few inches down to capture her lips in his own. "It'll work quite well." He plants a kiss on her jawbone, suckling slightly on the skin there, then another further along, and another on her neck, stooping slightly to reach her collarbone. Her breath comes in heady gasps and he relishes in the sound in the way he always relishes in her, in those noises made in her low, sensual voice and in that little twitch of her hips that he can feel against his own.

"Doctor! This is kind of important!"

"Mm, clever plan's not going too well, is it?" she asks, pressing him away by the shoulders. "Why don't we just fly off…"

"Doctor you bloody sodding idiot, get out here this instant!"

"Ouch," the Doctor murmurs. "Go get dressed, River, and we'll go."

With a frown, she turns on her heel and stalks out. He watches the swing of her hips as she heads down the hallway, throwing him a reproachful glance over her shoulder. It is his turn to frown as he rebuttons his shirt, trying to ignore the pounding on the TARDIS door. He scrambles for his bow tie and ties it back around his neck, lunging for the door. He pushes it open, staring at Jim the Fish, caught mid-yell and mid-knock. The blue fist crashes into his face before Jim can stop it.

"Shit, Doc, took you long enough. Now listen, I told you it was important, right? Well shit's opened up into a whole new can of worms while you were off sitting pretty in the TARDIS."

"What's going on, Jim?" The Doctor asks with annoyance, staring the gaunt blue man in the eye.

"Right, so I just got a shipment—"

That is when it hits the Doctor like a shot: Jim _lost_ a shipment, and he wants the Doctor to track it down. It's probably something important, expensive, and illegal; something he has a high-paying client for and is not going to let off. It might have been stolen, for all the Doctor knows or cares. It might just be floating through space in the middle of nowhere. "Jim…" he begins, staring him down, annoyance clouding in his mind.

"I know, I know, but it's important; there's some expensive, dangerous shit in there and you're the only one in this whole damn universe who can actually reclaim it—"

Flattery. Jim is not a suave man (alien), and the glint in his eye is far from reassuring. "You don't want to pay, either. Really, Jim, this is ridiculous."

"Hey!" Jim protests, reaching out to lean on the door, "I ain't that kind of cat. You'll get money or whatever you want, I just need the stuff back!"

"Hire someone, Jim. I'm not an intergalactic messenger and repo man for you, I hope you understand." He pushes his fingers through his hair, mussing it in a gentle shaking motion. "I've got things to do and, I don't know, people to save or something, and I am _not _here to do your errands for you."

"Doc," Jim complains, leaning off the TARDIS. He shoves his hands into the pockets of the loose khaki shorts he wears, glowering up at him. "I don't care what I interrupted. I just need my shit and you're the best man for the job."

He opens his mouth to protest, to prepare some great speech about how utterly abhorrent it is of Jim to treat the TARDIS like a cargo ship and himself as an errand boy. He opens his mouth and draws in a great gulp of air because he is about to get _shouty_, and he stops.

That grating whine—

"What the hell are you _playing _at?" Jim the Fish demands, lunging forward like he can stop the TARDIS from dematerialising. The Doctor simply reaches out and pushes him away.

"I guess we're leaving, then. Best of luck!" he says flippantly, closing the doors behind him. As he turns around, he can already hear River's choked laugh at their getaway.

"Oh _you're _flustered," she says, flipping a switch on the console to silence the grating complaint from his old girl. She _did _change, at least—she's still barefoot, but she put on the cleric's vest and camouflage pants that he'd suggested.

"River, you are _dreadful_," he groans, crossing the room and wrapping his long fingers around her waist to pull her away from the console. He's unsurprised, of course; this is so like her that he could almost laugh at himself for not thinking of it sooner. Instead, he elects to move his hands up, up, up, sliding out and along her ribcage, moving to cup her breasts. She moves slightly, and from his angle he can see her lips part to let out a breathy sigh.

"Move your hands, sweetie," she says quietly, pulling the vest up by the hem and over her head once he obliges. The taut, thin fabric slides up over her skin, and he groans involuntarily as inch by inch, the expanse of her smooth, supple skin is revealed. Even with her frequent escapes from her cell, she has still paled considerably over the past hundred or so years; her skin has gone from golden to ivory since the last time he saw her. He runs his fingers along it, trailing after the vest in his motions, tracing Gallifreyan characters along her side as his fingers chase the fabric.

"Mm," she sighs idly, arms crossing over her torso to pull off her vest completely. In one fluid motion, the shirt's progress speeds, and it is yanked over her head. He wraps his arms around her waist, burying his nose in her hair (and with it most of his face, by extension, as her hair is a mass of cloud that he loses himself in temporarily), splaying his fingers over her flat stomach. He undulates them slightly, watching through her hair as best he can the rippling movements of his fingers.

In response, she arches her back forward slightly, reaching back behind her. Her fingers unlatch the clasps in her bra. He watches her shoulder blades shift back and forth, her arms moving to accommodate the straps. Almost too slowly, she pulls the straps down her shoulders—her shoulder blades flex again—and he gulps unconsciously as she pulls the green lace away from her body. "Oh," she says as she holds the filmy garment in her fingers. "Did you want you, you know, get that? I know you like to…"

"I _do_?" he asks, incredulously. He can't recall ever having done that. "Are you sure?"

"Blast," River says, looking cross, "Spoilers. I forgot our last time for you was Spain."

"I can try, if you want. I mean, put it back on and I'll have a go?"

She laughs, turning around to face him, and all thought goes from his mind of bras or anything vaguely sane. The universe in his mind fades and sputters because _hell_, he's still a man, isn't he? Perhaps more that a man. He's a Time Lord, and in his chest his two hearts begin a frantic gallop. Oh, we're he a swearing man the first word to leave his lips would be _damn_. "That—never mind," he says, setting his dry lips nervously. "I don't think I need to anymore." He stares at her, his lovely wife standing in the middle of his TARDIS wearing naught but a cleric's camouflage pants.

"Oh, River," he murmurs, trailing his hands up and over her breasts, gently at first, then with the pressure he knows she loves. His lips move to capture hers, and she moans gently into his mouth. Breaking the kiss, he leans down, sinking slowly to his knees as he trails kisses down her neck and along her collarbones, over her breasts—one kiss on either one—and along the flat plane of her stomach. He pauses, mouth hovering by her navel as he unbuttons her pants, pulling them down, shimmying the camouflage over her hips. More kisses, down to the crest of her hips on the left side, and she practically mewls as her hips thrust slightly.

"Sweetie," she groans, and a growl catches in the back of her throat, "_don't_." He feels her fingers fist in his hair and tug gently, ushering him back up to her. Denying her request, he instead pinches between his fingers the sides of her lace knickers, pulling them down slightly. She moves back, stepping out of the combat trousers pooled around her ankles. He pulls down the fabric and she steps out of that, too, her steps slightly unsteady. He _likes_ that. With steady hands, he grips her by the hips, pulling her toward him gently. He knows what he wants from her; he wants to see her, normally solid and grounded, sobbing her breaths and moaning his name up into the air, coming undone around his fingers and tongue, her head thrown back and eyes dark with lust.

"Put your leg up over my shoulder," he requests, and sees the amusement spark in her eyes.

"You don't—"

"I want to," he says, and without further protest she complies wordlessly, lifting her leg up and propping it over his shoulder, knee bending over his back. Faced with her gleaming folds, he can't help but exhale experimentally, smiling to himself as she shivers and lets out a breathy gasp. He files that away for later, the little gleaming hint of knowledge that she likes that, and moves his face forward ever so slightly, running his tongue carefully along the length of her slit, using his hands to steady her hips against the console as she squirms against him.

"Oh, _fuck_," she groans, bracing her hands palms-down against the console. He parts her inner lips with his fingers, nipping at her clit and watching her sob out a breath as his tongue slides over and then into her opening. "Doctor!" she cries, her back arching and hips bucking toward him. "Oh, it's been so _long_—!"

"How long?" he inquires quietly, releasing the side of her body that doesn't have a leg up so that his fingers can enter her, moving slowly, almost teasingly.

"The first Jim the Fish was the last time I was with you," she says, bracing herself further back on the console. "That was…twenty years ago." She shudders and groans, losing track of the words. "Twenty—oh _fuck _Doctor, yes, like _that_—"

"Oh," he says quietly, understanding her need, "oh dear." His tongue resumes its place within her as he uses his desire-wettened fingers to rub against her clit. She moans aloud, fingers knotting in his hair as she gasps above him, panting and whimpering. Around his tongue, he can feel her beginning to contract, and so he pinches her clit with his thumb and forefinger, fucking her with his tongue as he stimulates her with his fingers.

"Oh—oh _fuck_," she cries, and her fingers are wound so tightly in his hair that it almost hurts. "Oh, _Doctor_, oh god yes, like that—" She finishes with a jolt and a scream, an actual scream from the force of her orgasm, her fingers loosening from his scalp and her body relaxing back into the console. When her leg slides limply off his shoulder, he stands up, catching her by the hips and holding him against him so that she doesn't fall back onto the console. A minute passes in silence; her breathing settles to its normal pace and he is sure that if he took her pulse he'd find that it to be normalised, the beating from her two hearts.

She rises, smiling like a knife, and takes him by the shoulders, pressing him into the railing. "Oh sweetie, you're such a treat," she says, and he reaches out to run his fingers none-too-gently down her sides. Her breath hitches again and her eyes cloud over once more with lust. "Now, let's get you out of those clothes."

He kisses her, hard and desperate, the prickling trailings of lust shooting from his groin to his brain and back again serving as a reminder of how much he needs her. Her taste still lingers on his lips and he shares it, laving his tongue along the top of her mouth. He feels her fingers tugging at the buttons of his shirt and moves his torso back slightly to accommodate her. One-handedly and skillfully, she pulls at the buttons, her other sliding over his chest. Her fingers reach his nipple, gently applying pressure and pinching it between them; he gasps into her mouth with pleasure and surprise. He's forgotten how sensitive this body is. She laughs lowly as he stiffens, finishing up the buttons as her fingerpads press against his chest, stroking gently enough to send shivers down his spine.

"River," he groans as she pushes the shirt off his shoulders and off his arms. "River I _need_ you."

He can only brace himself against the railing as, with a taunting, flippant grin, she leans down to untie his boots. She's still rushed, but stalling; although she probably wants this as much as he does, she can't resist but draw it out. And oh, up until moments ago he could wait for centuries, busying himself in mapping her curves and blazing trails of fingertips and kisses along her body, memorizing her collarbones and the curve of her spine when she comes undone, the universe of lust in her eyes and the glorious curve of _everything_—hips and waist and breasts and arse. But now he literally feels like he will burst if he isn't within her in moments. She pulls his pants down and he steps out of them, pressing her once more against the console as he fumbles with his boxers.

"Oh, stop," she says, smiling fondly, an once more she pushes him back, yanking his boxers down and sinking to her knees with a smirk in her face.

"River you don't have to reciprocate—"

"I want to," she echoes, and he feels her hot breath on his cock as she regards his length for a moment. There is only silence as he squirms, watching her kneeling form before him. She moves, finally, and he feels her tongue on the head—_oh hell_—a moment before her lips close and she envelops him in her warm mouth, curling her tongue around his shaft. She begins to move, bobbing her head along his length, and oh he is seeing stars, universes, the whole expanse of the galaxy playing through his mind, bobbing up and down with that glory of blonde curls. She does _something_ with her tongue, and in that burst of passion and fire he can't tell what it is but it felt amazing.

"Oh, _River_," he cries, and he can feel himself edging closer to the brink. Something grazes his cock—her teeth, he realises, ever so gently scraping along the length of him—and he hisses, feeling his body arch over and his hips buck into her. "Do that again," he moans shamelessly, reaching out to tangle his fingers in her hair.

Her tongue follows her teeth in a path down his length then leads them back up, and he groans—so close, so damnably _close_—and her tongue winds around the head one last time and he cannot hold back a whimper as she stands up, pulling his body in. "Oh, I'm so selfish, aren't I?" she laughs, reaching her head out to nip at his neck.

"River!" he gasps, and he feels his knees shaking from how close to that glory of an edge he is. "_Why_—"

He feels her fingers wrap around his length and pull it forward, positioning it at her entrance. Without a thought he grabs her hips with bruising force, penetrating her with one long stroke. They cry out at the same time, her plummy voice contorting into a high, keening note, and his voice going low and choked. He can feel that edge coming closer but pulls himself back, holding off for her, his strokes hitting her clit with every thrust. His hands reach up to trap her nipples within their fingers, tugging gently and pinching hard enough to make her whimper for more, her chest thrusting out ever so slightly into his hands. She, in return, grabs his hips, pulling him closer to her and pressing her lips against his like she could devour him given half a chance. The little whimpers change to full-blown moans and she releases them into his mouth, parting her lips past his to cry out. He takes the moment to slip his tongue into her mouth, entwining it with hers.

"Oh, oh, oh hell," she cries, breaking the kiss for a moment. Her leg curls around the back of his, pulling him closer in. He feels like, just for the second, their bodies could melt together, fusing and shaping something wonderful and perfect. Her body contracts around him; he can feel her walls spasming and she lets out another one of those wonderful, genuine screams that he loves to hear, her rich voice rising higher than he's heard it before. She doesn't have to try to be quiet so she lets her cries rattle the rafters, in a manner of speaking. Her nails dig deep into his bare shoulderblades and her leg draws tight around his own, nearly tripping him.

And oh that is the last step over the edge—it's like stars colliding and bursting into supernovas in the galaxy of his mind as he comes within her, groaning her name into her ear.

And he thinks, as she sinks gracefully down to the cold glass and metal floor of the TARDIS, pulling him down with her, that he could really get used to this. She exhales breathily, coiling her body tightly into his side, and he reaches out lazily to run his fingers through her curls. They sit there for minutes, lazily holding fast to one another, and finally he begins to speak.

"Stay with me," he whispers, leaning over to her to plant a kiss on her temple. "Not just for this time, but for years upon years. Don't go back to prison; you don't belong there."

"Sweetie," she murmurs quietly, splaying her hand on his chest. "Sweetie, don't."

"But why do you keep having to go back? No, River, I'm not going to stop. Just think of it," he says, sitting up to look her in the eye, "You and me, time and space—the whole of reality, all that there ever is or was or will be, and just us in this little blue box and everything at our fingertips. Just _think _of it! We're the stuff of dreams, you and I—"

She reaches her hand up to touch his face, smiling sadly up at him. "But sweetie, do our lives work that way? What if we run into an older me, an older you? You know me; wherever I go, I attract danger. It's unavoidable. And you know me, my love. My idea of dealing with something is shooting it or flirting it into submission, neither of which I'd assume you find palatable."

"I don't care," he says, "I really don't. I can't run anymore, River; all this running is killing me and I need someone to make time tolerable again. I'm _lost_, River."

"Lost but now you're found?" she quips with her eyebrows raised, sitting up next to him. "Don't do this, my love. If you keep asking, you know I won't be able to resist." He looks over to see tears sparkling in her eyes, and for a moment wonders if there is really something so horrible that she is running from that she cannot stay with him.

"River…Whatever it is, I can help you. I can protect you. We've got all of time and space, remember? Enough places to hide to last the rest of my life."

"I endanger you," she says simply, reaching out to pull closer to her the heap of her clothes. "You know that is true. When we touch it is like wildfire, and when you are near I can feel the whole universe turning to watch us run. There is nothing in this world for me if I cannot stay with you. I need you to breathe, to function, to live. I was invented to destroy you, but along the way, I found that I can't live without you. But I've had to, and I will do it again because I know that I put you in danger. If the Silence find me—and don't be delusioned, the Silence is still strong—then we are lost, I am lost."

"I don't care." he says petulantly, pushing her clothes away from her hands. "I don't think I've ever cared what baggage someone carries when they step into this room. The whole universe could be chasing after you with all its ingenuity and strength and I would still protect you. You know that."

"You're really not going to take 'no' for an answer, are you?" she queries, relenting slightly. "I just—I just don't want to be another companion, another friend, another lovesick girl who follows you around the cosmos, caught in awe of your skills. I don't think I could take being so inconsequential when faced with all this glory, my love."

"They were never inconsequential," he says, wounded. "Never. Even when they died, even when they had to forget me and how powerful they were, they were never unimportant. Look at Donna, the most important woman in the universe even though she doesn't know it; Martha who's still fighting even though I'm long gone; Rose—" He stops speaking. Rose is important but River knows that, River values all of them, all of the men and women of the earth as much as he does. And judging by the glint in her eye, she didn't need to be reminded of any of that.

"I know sweetie, I know. And all of them, you've left behind. Jack, Martha, Donna, Sarah-Jane, Mickey, Rose, even my mother someday is going to become part of the long trail of loose ends behind you. I don't want to be part of the wreckage, sweetie."

"You won't. You're not. There are two hearts beating in your chest and you've lived for hundreds of years. You're not a companion, River; you're my equal, my friend, my wife. I'm not leaving you until death do us part," he says, staring her in the eye. "You know that."

She swallows and reaches for the pile of clothes again. He draws in a breath through his teeth, feeling somewhat sick to his stomach. He doesn't want to be alone again, he wants her here with him for good because she is the one good thing he hasn't completely ruined yet—but oh, he will soon. Someday soon she's going to take a trip to the library where he won't remember a future of her, and someday soon in the past he will lose her without knowing what it is he has lost besides something that will someday be precious.

"Oh, you'll be the death of me," she says, standing up and pulling on her knickers. "All of time and space? Let's find a dress store, first."

He smiles, then, elated and barely able to hold in a joyful whoop. The universe is not so empty when she is there to fill it whole, Checking the monitors, he sees that they are floating invisibly somewhere over London in the year 2011. With a smile, he throws a lever. "Taking us down to land," he says, grabbing her by the hand.

With her by his side, he feels like he can face anything. He's not so alone anymore.


End file.
